


Petals On Cheeks

by fanfictiongreenirises



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: 3+1, Batfamily, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Dick Grayson is a Good Brother, Don't copy to another site, Eyelashes, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, no editing we typo like mne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21655066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanfictiongreenirises/pseuds/fanfictiongreenirises
Summary: Three times Bruce helped Dick get eyelashes out of his eye, and one time Dick helped Cass.That's it, that's the story.
Relationships: Cassandra Cain & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 298





	Petals On Cheeks

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what this is or why i ended up writing it because no one, absolutely _no one_ , asked for it (or probably even thought to ask for it). the technique bruce uses is one my mum used on me and my brother, and it's v effective (10/10 would recommend lol).
> 
> this is also my first time writing jason and cass, both of whom i have little experience with (any constructive feedback on how i went with them is appreciated =D). cass' characterisation is a combination of batman and robin eternal and what i've read about her online, and i've tried to incorporate a bit of her humour from batman: gates of gotham. jason's personality is also mostly fanon and what i've read about him online, because apparently his characterisation in batman and robin eternal isn't very good, and i watched under the red hood too long ago to remember it clearly.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters here. I just sat down in the sandpit for a little while to move them around.

THIS FANFICTION IS HOSTED ON **ARCHIVE OF OUR OWN** , WHERE YOU CAN READ IT FOR **FREE**. IF YOU’RE READING THIS ON A DIFFERENT WEBSITE, IT WAS POSTED THERE **WITHOUT** THE AUTHOR’S CONSENT.

I.

Dick had broken off from what he was saying in slow increments, sentence dying down as he became distracted. Bruce frowned, lowering his newspaper down a little to peer at him.

Dick was blinking rapidly, wincing as he did so.

“Dick?” Bruce asked, wondering what this was. Did he have something in his eye? Had he been reminded of something from his life before – were these tears he was blinking back? Maybe it was all an elaborate prank. He wouldn't put it past Dick to not suddenly jump up and yell _sike!_

Dick gave him a grimacing smile, something Bruce had no idea how he pulled off. “Eyelash in my eye,” he said. “My mom always told me to see if it got out on its own first before doing anything.”

Bruce nodded, and went back to reading. The society pages were by far the worst, so he had to get through them now at breakfast with Dick to liven up the place or else he’d never do it. He paused to pull out the comic and crossword section and slide it across the table to where his ward sat.

The scene before him made him frown harder. Dick had apparently given up on the eyelash getting itself out, and had moved on to swiping at his eye with a sleeve. There was water running down one side of his face from the combination of the pressure from his ministrations and the pain of the eyelash itself.

Bruce was halfway out of his chair before he hesitated. He had no idea what he was doing; the eyes were a delicate thing – what if he made it worse? And Dick wasn’t so young that he’d never dealt with this alone before. He didn’t need Bruce to try and help. Maybe he should get Alfred. Alfred would know what to do.

But one glance at the rapidly reddening face of his ward had Bruce moving forward to crouch by Dick’s chair.

“Here,” he said, “let me try.”

Dick paused, possibly more out of shock than anything else. Bruce gently placed a hand on his wrist and moved the hand away, noting the agitated skin from all the excessive rubbing. He grabbed a handkerchief out from his pocket and blew hot air onto it, warming it up. Then, with a lighter touch than he’d thought himself capable of, he smoothed it across Dick’s eyelid, again and again.

“Is it out yet?” Bruce asked after a few moments. He peered at the cloth in his hand, and then at Dick’s cheek, to see if he could find it.

Dick shook his head, a few more droplets of water falling from his eye as blinked rapidly. His hands twitched where Bruce had placed them in his lap.

Bruce frowned and breathed onto the handkerchief once more, before dabbing it at Dick’s eye again. Maybe he was doing this wrong. Surely it didn’t take _this_ much time – there wasn’t enough space on an eyeball for it to be this difficult.

This time, he could see when the eyelash had finally come out. Plucking it from Dick’s cheek, he glared at the offending lash that had caused both of them so much stress.

“Wait!” Dick said. “I have to make a wish first!”

Bruce blinked. “What?”

“If your eyelash falls on your face, you gotta pick it up, make a wish, and blow it away.”

Bruce wondered if there were handbooks out there with all of these rituals noted down. “Okay, go ahead, chum,” he said, more in amusement than anything else.

Dick, still with one half of his face red and teary, screwed up his nose in concentration, and then blew the eyelash off Bruce’s fingertip.

Something deep in Bruce smiled at the sight. He folded the handkerchief and placed it on the table. But before he could stand up all the way, something solid jumped into him, wrapping all the way around Bruce’s torso.

At this point, Bruce had gotten somewhat used to the feeling of Dick grabbing him in a hug, but it never got less astonishing. It never stopped making his brain freeze for one moment, before recognising the situation for what it was and returning the hug.

He rubbed a hand over Dick’s back as his other moved behind him so the two of them wouldn’t topple backwards, settling himself down into a seated position on the hardwood floor.

“Thanks, Bruce,” Dick said, voice muffled by Bruce’s chest. “It takes for _ever_ to get out by myself now.” His voice had trailed off into melancholy.

Bruce held on tighter at the words. He cleared his throat. “My mother would do the same for me,” he said. “She always had sort of handkerchief or cloth with her.”

He hadn’t thought of these particular memories in a long time and was startled by their vividness. He could still feel the warm heat of the cloth pressed against his eye, the soothing sound of his mother’s voice as she told him it would out in just a second, her smile when it was gone and he was blinking up at her.

Dick shuffled a little in his arms, getting comfortable. It’d taken a while to get used to the feeling of knobbly elbows and knees digging into his flesh, but now there was something comforting about holding the child. Dick moved back enough so that he could see Bruce’s face.

He tilted his head to the side. “But you never made a wish on them?” he asked.

Bruce felt the ghost of a smile appear on his face. “I wasn’t the wishing type,” he said.

Dick looked at him in genuine confusion. “Why not?” He was probably considering how many wishes Bruce had wasted.

Bruce stood with a grunt, and dropped Dick back into his seat to finish his cereal. “I never thought there was much point, I suppose.”

“Next time you lose an eyelash, I’ll teach you,” Dick said earnestly.

Bruce looked at him, the tiny boy with so much sunlight in his veins, and smiled. “Alright,” he said.

II.

Robin was pacing around the cave extra loudly. Bruce resisted the urge to sigh; there was no point in matching Dick’s childishness, despite the number of times he’d given in to the urge over the course of the past year.

He’d been given enough looks by Alfred to know how Alfred felt about the fighting.

But lately it’d been one argument after another, and Bruce was sick of it.

He gritted his teeth and took in controlled breaths as there was a loud _crack_ behind him; Robin had evidently seen something noisy and decided to step on it. Bruce kept scrolling through the list of deeds on the Batcomputer, forcing his eyes to focus. He would _not_ lose his temper. He was the adult in this situation; despite what Alfred thought on the matter, he could act like one.

Sheer willpower got him through the next five buildings, but then something niggled at him. He paused, holding his breath as he went through a mental checklist of what could’ve alerted him.

Dick was no longer pacing back and forth like a bulldozer.

Normally, Bruce would’ve opened up the cameras monitoring the Cave for a quick scan. But now, he was far more worried about starting up another fight, and besides, Dick was _right_ behind him. So he got up slowly, scanning the Cave to see where Dick was.

He frowned when he saw the boy with his back towards Bruce, standing completely still in the centre of the Cave, one hand by his side and the other hidden by his body. One corner of his cape had been dragged around to his front.

Bruce walked over to him, suddenly concerned. A whirlwind of potential reasons flooded through his mind. “Robin?”

Dick started slightly, evidently too engrossed in whatever he was doing to have noticed Bruce approaching him, let alone leaving his seat. He didn’t say anything, just continued swiping one side of his unmasked face with his cape. His frown made even Bruce’s facial muscles wince.

“Eyelash?” he asked, all the pieces suddenly fitting together. He was suddenly extremely relieved to be dealing with a normal problem, something he could actually handle. Something he’d done a hundred times in the years since Dick had come to live with him.

Dick’s glare spoke all the words he wouldn’t verbalise in response: _what do you think?_

Bruce let out a breath as evenly as he could, willing himself not to get frustrated. “Do you want me to try?” he asked, in the same voice he always asked.

There was a moment where he thought that Dick would move his hand away and let Bruce get out the eyelash for him (and that moment landed itself in fantasy territory where a tiny, hopeful part of him thought that maybe they’d finally go back to being the way they were before Dick suddenly became so headstrong and angry and _unhappy_ ), but that was all dashed when Dick’s frown – which Bruce hadn’t thought could become any more deeply engraved into his forehead – became darker.

“I don’t need your help,” Dick said. “It’s just a stupid eyelash. I can do _some_ things by myself, even if you don’t think so. I’m not a _kid_ anymore, Bruce.”

With that, he walked away, heading over to the bathrooms.

Bruce finally let out the sigh he’d been holding in for hours, and went back to the Batcomputer. The cape weighed heavy on his back.

III.

Bruce rarely joined Dick and Tim for their movie nights. Bruce rarely joined in for anything that wasn’t Batman related anymore. But tonight, Alfred and Dick had ganged up on him, and Tim had somehow put a five-hour lock on the Batcomputer. Bruce knew he could override it if he _really_ wanted to, but at a look from Alfred, decided to give in.

“I can’t believe you’ve never watched _Toy Story_ ,” Dick was saying when Bruce walked in, a platter of cookies and two bowls of popcorn balanced in his arms. “They’re the _best_. The third one came out last year, and it’s a complete tearjerker…”

The boys’ eyes lit up when they saw him, and for a moment Bruce distantly entertained the notion that it was him they were excited to see and not Alfred’s cookies, which were relieved from his care the moment he was within arm’s reach.

Bruce went to sit at the armchair, adjacent from the massive four-seater couch that Dick and Tim were occupying. He took a cookie, knowing if he didn’t take some now, they’d all be gone halfway through the first movie, but a hand grabbed his sleeve.

Bruce swung his gaze to the offending appendage. Dick grinned at him.

“Sit, B,” he said, indicating to the spot between him and Tim that was currently covered in three blankets. “You won’t be able to reach the snacks from over there.”

“And we can’t promise to leave any cookies for you,” Tim added, expression on his face identical to Dick’s.

Bruce grunted, moving aside some of the blankets – honestly, it was barely even autumn – and sitting himself between the two of them. Almost immediately, his lap was used as a table.

Dick handed Tim the first bowl of popcorn. “For you and your weird habits,” he proclaimed. “Bruce’s left side is free real estate.”

Tim shrugged, balancing it on his and Bruce’s thighs. “It tastes better with cranberries.”

“And for us,” Dick said, “normal people who just like burnt butter and caramel with,” he whipped out a red bottle out of nowhere, “ketchup!”

Bruce looked at him with judgement and some horror. What had Dick been learning in Blüdhaven?

“Where’s the normal popcorn?” He’d assumed the one Dick was holding was the bowl with the triple butter.

“Here, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. He eyed both Dick and Tim’s concoctions. “I do hope you’ll refrain from desecrating it.”

“Mine has _fruit_ in it, Alfred!” Tim protested. “I thought you’d approve.”

“Master Timothy, there are far better ways of consuming fruit.” Alfred placed another plate of cookies before them.

“Won’t you join us, Alfred?” Bruce asked, knowing already that the butler wouldn’t.

“Perhaps next time, Master Bruce,” Alfred told him. “I do believe there is a thrilling novel and cup of tea awaiting me.”

The cookies were the first to go, the last one snatched by crumb encrusted fingers while Woody and the rest of the toys executed their plan to scare Sid. Two solid lumps were pressed against Bruce, who was suddenly feeling all the sleepless nights. It was probably only Tim and Dick talking over him in hushed voices that was keeping him awake at all.

“Now I just feel guilty for leaving so many of my toys behind,” Tim commented around a mouthful of Cheetos. “They’re probably out there plotting my death.”

“You gave yours away because you didn't need them anymore. They’re probably happy they’re being played with,” Dick told him. “Better than leaving them to gather dust on a shelf or abandoning them on a field trip and then replacing them with another version of the same toy.”

Tim frowned. “Hey, are you spoilering me?”

“Your fault for not watching them before, Timmy.”

“I had better things to do,” Tim said. “Like uncovering Batman and Robin’s secret identities.”

There was a brief pause before Bruce heard the sound of a piece of popcorn hit Tim, but instead of falling, it stuck with a wet squelch.

“Eugh!” That was Tim, and Bruce couldn’t blame his reaction. It was one thing to be hit with popcorn, but it was another for usually dry food to stick to you, sliding down in a trail of red instead of bouncing off. “How do you _eat_ this sh—stuff!”

Bruce closed his eyes again, safe in the knowledge that Tim was more mature than Dick and would never rise to the bait.

There was a crinkling noise and Bruce’s eyes snapped open to see a handful of popcorn sailing past his face.

“Boys!” he growled.

A piece hit him in the forehead, and he turned to stare Dick down.

“Sorry, Bruce,” Dick said with no hint of remorse on his face. “We’ll clean up afterwards.”

“Yeah, sorry, B,” Tim said from his other side. “But you should totally get Dick back. We won’t judge.”

“Tim, I can and will bench you,” Bruce told him even as he pegged a popcorn kernel at his eldest.

There was a yelp as it hit its target, and Tim’s look of awe was worth the chaos that ensued.

The movie was paused for the ten minutes it took to clean up the room and refill the popcorn and drinks. Bruce probably dozed in the lulls between the conversations, because every time he returned his attention to the screen, he’d missed large amounts of plot. The toys were now in an airport, and he had no memory of them ever getting there. It’d been a while since he’d seen these movies – the last time was probably with Dick, because Jason—

Bruce shoved a handful of whatever was in the packet nearest him into his mouth, and immediately grimaced at the taste of Cheetos. There was something _off_ about them, he knew, but Dick kept managing to bring them into the Manor without Alfred confiscating them.

“I used to have a dog like Slinky,” Bruce said, brushing the Cheeto dust off his fingers.

“I can’t imagine you playing with a slinky dog,” Tim commented.

Bruce didn’t tell him that it’d been a 1950’s original, one that he'd only ever played with once before placing it high on a shelf. “It was a compromise for not being allowed a real dog.”

Tim eyed him. “Does that mean I can—”

“No.”

By the time they were halfway through the third movie, both of the boys had been quiet for some time, finally winding down from the sugar rush. Bruce just hoped that this viewing didn’t lead to the Manor being overrun with “lost and abandoned toys, Bruce! They’re _orphaned!”_

Tim had, at some point, shoved his freezing toes under Bruce’s leg, using the armrest as a pillow. Bruce was going to buy Tim socks the following day, or take a blood test to see where his iron levels stood.

There was a rush of movement on Bruce’s other side as Dick fought to get his hand out of the burrito he’d wrapped himself into. Bruce only just managed to catch the bowl of popcorn before it fell to the ground and spilled its contents everywhere.

“Dick?” he said in a low tone, hoping not to disturb Tim, who was either asleep or close to it.

“Eyelash,” Dick said through gritted teeth. “And I think I just got Cheeto dust in there too.”

He moved to using his wrist instead, the sleeves of his shirt too short, and the hem of it too much of a hassle to bring up. Bruce wondered whether he bothered with the “wait to see if it comes out on its own” step anymore.

It’d been years since he’d last had to help Dick get a wayward eyelash out. His son was no longer the child he’d come to Bruce as; he’d been living on his own in his own city and his own apartment for years now. He had a job, and his own mantle out from under Batman’s shadow. He was his own person, an _adult_. He’d probably done this a thousand times; there was no reason for Bruce to interfere.

Bruce remembered with perfect clarity what had happened the last time he’d offered, and he didn’t know if he wanted to face that again. He didn’t want to do something that would drive Dick away again, not when they’d finally gotten some vestige of a functioning relationship back.

But he couldn’t just sit there watching Dick practically gouge his eye out. His own throbbed just watching.

“Would you like me to try?”

Bruce held his breath as Dick paused, the eye not tightly screwed shut studying him carefully. Bruce wondered whether he could tell that Bruce’s heart was beating hard in his chest, a tight coil beneath his flesh, or just how close he was to rescinding the offer so he wouldn’t have to listen to Dick tell him _no, I can do it, I don’t need you anymore._

And then, Dick smiled. “Nothing gets them out as quick as you,” he said, voice carefully light; Bruce could breathe again.

Bruce got out the handkerchief that was in his pocket, and blew hot air onto it. Then, just as carefully as he’d always done it, he smoothed it down over the offending eyelid, movements repetitive and practised. This? This he could do; it was all coming back to him like it’d only been yesterday that there’d been children who’d needed eyelashes fished out of their eyes. Only yesterday that Jason had been the one here instead of Dick.

He didn’t look at Dick’s open eye, the one that was still watching him. “Out yet?” he asked, glancing at Dick’s cheek first and then at the handkerchief.

Dick nodded. “Yeah, I think so.” He blinked experimentally a couple of times as Bruce spotted the lash on the cloth in his hand.

He picked it up between his thumb and forefinger, and looked at Dick questioningly. Dick let out a startled laugh. He looked at it with the same concentration he had his whole life, blowing it off Bruce’s finger.

And yet, when he resettled on the couch to finish watching the movie, there was a gap between them by Dick that had previously been filled with him using Bruce’s arm as a pillow.

IV.

Cass had her head lowered, hair hiding her face and whatever her hand was doing. Dick didn’t know if he should ask: her body language was defensive, everything about how she was hunched into herself and holding perfectly still screaming to be left alone, for her to go unseen. 

But leaving without asking her if something was wrong didn’t settle right with him. What sort of an older brother would he be if he didn’t make sure she was okay? What sort of a _person_ would he be if he left her without checking in?

Dick made sure to shuffle his feet approaching her, bumping a table with his hip for extra measure. Cass knew he was there, and probably knew that he knew that. Cass’ conditioning was just that good, but the knowledge was always a heavy weight in Dick’s gut.

“Cass?” he asked softly, stopping a few metres away from where she was. “Is everything alright?”

Cass stiffened in front of him. Dick could see the practically cogs in her brain running, and he hoped that, in the time she’d been with them, he had shown her that she could trust him.

He didn’t know whether Cass could see his hands, so words were the next best thing. “Whatever’s going on, you can trust me. I…” he hesitated. “I won’t even tell anyone if you don’t want me to.” That last promise was a bit risky, but he couldn’t see any blood, so it was a risk worth taking. Besides, he could handle a little blood. They all could.

Slowly, Cass lowered her hands. Dick’s signing wasn’t as fluent as he wanted it to be, but he was still good enough to be able to understand when she sighed _eyelash_.

All at once, the pieces fell together. Dick didn’t want to know what it meant that she felt she had to hide something so small and _normal_ from him, didn’t want to know what David Cain had done to her for having a rogue _eyelash_ in her eye. He just wanted to show Cass that it was okay.

And then he realised he’d been quiet for too long. “Eyelash in your eye?” At her nod, he continued, “It happens to me all the time. Even worse when you have the mask on. Bruce…” He tried not to let his voice become weighed down by the long turmoiled history that was his and Bruce’s, the memory of the last time Bruce had fished out an eyelash from his eye and how it’d left Dick feeling just like he was a kid again, as safe and _coddled_ as he had the first time Bruce had done it, and how he hadn’t had any idea of how to deal with meshing the relationship they’d carefully salvaged from the wreckage of all their fights.

But if there was anything Dick was good at, it was shutting unwanted memories tightly into a box and shoving it into a dark crevice in his mind.

“Bruce is the best at getting them out,” Dick told her. “You can barely feel it. It doesn’t hurt at all. And it’s over super fast.” Bruce was just in the Cave; Dick knew she trusted him enough to do this. One text to him and he’d come running.

There was a brief moment, before Cass’ hand moved again. Only this time, she pointed at Dick.

“Me?” Dick said in surprise. “You want…you want _me_ to do it?”

It was astonishing every time Cassandra let them help her. With something so mundane as this, she could’ve dealt with it on her own with relative ease, but instead she was choosing to let Dick help. A ball of warmth settled behind his breastbone, a lot like how Alfred the cat felt when he was curled up asleep onto Dick’s chest.

Cass nodded, lifting her head up and looking at him with determination. Both her eyes were open, which Dick inwardly winced at, but the one on the right were rimmed with red and the lashes surrounding it were slightly wet.

It was at that moment that Dick realised how unprepared he was for this. Bruce had, as a consequence of being raised by a British butler, always carried a handkerchief around, no matter what he was wearing, and it was a fact that Dick found endlessly funny right up until he needed said handkerchief. Dick himself, having been raised first in a circus and second by a man who went around wearing a bat costume, had no such ingrained habits. If he rooted around in his pockets, the most he’d come up with was probably a receipt from the last time he’d had takeout.

Thinking fast, Dick gripped the side of his shirt and pulled, the overly worn material ripping easily under his hand. Cass’ eyes widened as he ripped off a chunk of fabric, enough to leave the side of his stomach bare.

He grinned at her. “Don’t worry,” he reassured. “Alfred was eyeing it anyway. At least this way it’ll have more of a use before it gets tossed out.”

Cass was looking at him like she would’ve laughed had she not had a lash poking at her eyeball, but Dick got that a lot from his younger siblings. It’d stopped fazing him by now.

“Okay, close your eye.”

Cass kept the other one open, and her closed eye fluttered as she strained to not scrunch it tight. Dick breathed hot air onto the scrap of shirt he had in his hand, her eyes following his movements. Then, slowly and telegraphing his movements, he reached over and pressed it against Cass’ eye.

Cass didn’t jump. She only stiffened more, her one open eye widening a little before returning to usual.

“I’m going to move it down now, to get it out. Tell me if you want me to stop at any point, okay?”

Cass didn’t move, but Dick saw the understanding when he made eye contact with her. Slowly, and more gentle than he’d probably ever been in his life, Dick moved the cloth over her eyelid.

Cass was doing a much better job at holding still than he had, from what he remembered. He could still remember how Bruce had had to place a hand on his cheek, to make sure Dick didn’t move his head suddenly and get himself jabbed in the eye. Dick was careful not to touch Cass when she was already in a more vulnerable state than she had ever let herself get around him. He took what was given and cherished it.

“Does it feel like it’s still in there?” he asked after a moment, moving the cloth away and scanning it and her face for the stray lash.

Cass blinked a few times, testing it out, and then, in the corner of her eye, Dick spotted it.

“Hold on, I see it.” He dabbed at it, moving it away from her eye, before plucking it off the cloth where it had landed. “It’s out!” He resisted the urge to cheer, giddy relief at being able to do this without any mishaps coursing through him.

Cass smiled at him, a small but very, very real smile. _Thank you_. She signed it and mouthed it, and Dick grinned back at her.

“Wait, you gotta make a wish!” He held up the eyelash on the tip of his thumb. “It’s tradition. Just ask Bruce!”

“Ask me what?” Bruce’s voice sounded from behind him, and Dick jumped, only luck keeping the eyelash where it was on his thumb. “Are you okay?” That last part was directed to Cassandra.

“B!” Dick said, whirling around. “Tell Cass about wishing on an eyelash.”

Clarity on the situation made the worry lines on Bruce’s face relax, before they got that long suffering look he’d always had when Dick brought this up. Instead of responding, he grunted a _hunh_ , but didn’t move from his spot.

“Fine,” Dick said. “I will.” He turned to his sister, who’d been watching this exchange with an amused quirk of her lips. “If you lose an eyelash and it falls on your face, you gotta pick it up, make a wish, and blow it off your finger.”

 _Why?_ Cass asked. She was looking at him with interest.

Dick shrugged. “My parents always did it,” he said.

_Did your wishes ever come true?_

“Um,” Dick thought back, “I got my driver’s license when I wished I would?”

Bruce huffed from where he stood. “Of course you did,” he said. “You’d been driving for years by then. You probably had more experience than whoever took your driving test.”

“Yeah, but they were a hardass. _No one_ passed on the first go. I only got through because of _my wish_.”

Bruce looked skyward, but Cass grinned. _I believe you,_ she signed. _There’s no way you would’ve passed your test with how you drive without supernatural help._

Dick gaped at her as Bruce barked a laugh. “Wow,” he said finally. “So this is what betrayal feels like.”

Cass tapped his hand, drawing his attention to it. _Wish_ , she mouthed.

Dick held up the hand with the eyelash. Cass focused on it, eyes narrowing, before she blew it off with the lightest of breaths.

“And you can’t tell anyone what you wished for,” Dick said, suddenly remembering that no one in this family – apart from _Jason_ of all people – had any experience with making wishes. He still remembered the shock of learning that Damian had never blown candles out on a birthday cake.

 _Your magic has weird laws_. Cass was probably humouring him at this point. Bruce certainly was.

“Can’t be magic without weird laws,” Dick said “And this way if you wish for a cat or something, you’ll _know_ it was the wish because you didn’t tell anyone.”

Cass frowned. _A self-fulfilling prophecy is still a prophecy._

Dick waved a hand. “Semantics. Also, you’ve been hanging around Tim and Steph too much.” He stood up, wondering what to do with the scrap of cloth he now had.

“Grayson, if you wished to create a crop top, you should’ve defiled one of Drake’s shirts,” Damian said, striding through the room with Titus in tow.

A shoe flew through the air and hit Damian in the back, and he squawked, whirling around and chasing after the flash of red that had disappeared just as fast as it had appeared.

“Boys!” Bruce called after them, changing from a brisk walk to a run when a loud _smash_ sounded. “Damian, don’t throw things at your brother! I don’t care if Tim started it!”

At that moment, another figure walked into the room carrying a plastic bag stuffed with dirty laundry. “’Sup, losers. And Cass. Goldie, you might have washboard abs, but even you can’t pull off hobo chic.”

Dick stared. “ _Jay?_ I thought you said you wouldn’t be back till Friday.”

Jason, with the strangest case of bedhair Dick had ever seen, shrugged. “Alfred texted me saying he was baking brownies today. I’d rather die again than miss that.”

“Alfred’s making brownies?” Dick jumped to race to the kitchen, knowing that whoever got there first would get the mixing bowl. He was immediately shoved over as Jason practically vaulted over him to the doorway.

“I didn’t drive all night for you to steal my brownies, Dickhead!”

Dick grabbed Jason by the ankles and _pulled_ , not waiting as Jason twisted in the air to avoid falling flat on his face to scramble over his body. A tussle occurred as Dick was halfway over Jason’s body; Dick had no idea how it had started or who was winning, because all of a sudden, light steps were making their way past the two of them.

“Ah, Miss Cassandra! You’re just in time!” they could hear Alfred say from the kitchen. “The rest will be done in ten minutes.”

Jason’s head hit the ground with a _thunk_. “I drove fourteen fucking hours for no mixing bowl,” he said in a voice muffled by Dick’s elbow.

Dick snorted, leveraging himself up using Jason’s stomach, resulting in a soft grunt. “Come on, Little Wing. Cass is nicer than the rest of us. She’ll share.”

“Are you kidding? _No one_ shares Alfred’s brownies.”

Jason wasn’t entirely wrong; Cass allowed them one supervised finger swipe of the mixture while she whacked anyone else who came near her with a spatula, Alfred turning a blind eye to the shenanigans.

As eager mouths gathered around the benchtop while two trays of brownies cooled off, she smiled at Dick. _Maybe you were right about eyelash wishes_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!! Let me know how you liked it and feel free to come talk to me on [tumblr](https://fanfictiongreenirises.tumblr.com/)!!


End file.
